The morning after Christmas did not announce itself.
It arrived the way winter mornings often did in Shropshire: quietly, without ceremony, without urgency. Phillip woke to gray light pressing through the curtains and the muted sound of activity outside that did not yet demand his attention. He lay still for a few moments, not out of reluctance, but because there was no reason to move faster than the day itself.
The sounder did not click.
That alone told him more than any report.
He dressed slowly, choosing heavier boots, a wool coat still faintly smelling of smoke, and a scarf Henry had insisted he keep after last winter's cough. The house was warm. The fire had been banked properly overnight. Whoever had done it had known exactly how much fuel to leave.
In the kitchen, Henry sat at the table with a cup of tea and a ledger closed in front of him, untouched.
"You're up," Henry said.
"So are you," Phillip replied.
